The Fall of an Angel
by AshenMoon42
Summary: Hope Lupin. Mother. The sweetest woman you could ever meet. Killed in an attack by Death Eaters using the avada kedavra curse. Remus Lupin. Son. He who bore the pain. Remus was in potions when the world came crashing down. Chapter 2: Frank and Alice Longbottom / Neville
1. Lack of Hope (Hope Lupin)

**The Fall of an Angel**

 **J.K. Rowling did some writing on Pottermore about the Lupin family, and Remus's mother is killed sometime before the end of the first wizarding war. How? I didn't know, so here goes:** _ **The Fall of an Angel.**_ **It's mostly Remus's reaction, but if it's successful I'll write her death, maybe her funeral or what happened to Lyall, her husband. If you can suggest any other angels that fell, I can add more chapters.**

 **Enjoy!**

They filed into the potions classroom, and Remus reeled from the fumes that surrounded him. Tomorrow was the full moon, and he was already nauseous without the heavy scents, so the thought of spending the three hours in here was not a pleasant one. Already, the young werewolf's head ached, his nose and the back of his throat was stinging and raw, and sweat beaded at the back of his neck. He looked up with watering eyes: Slughorn stood by the blackboard, finishing a set of new instructions for today's potion.

They all got to work immediately. Remus worked with Sirius, trying to ignore the dull ache that filled his entire body. The air was damp and heavy, so Remus's brain was sluggish and slow. The only condolence was that after this it was lunch: a well-deserved break after the double period of potions.

He was grinding the moonstone when it happened. There was a loud knock on the door, and Professor McGonagall opened it. Without words, Remus knew immediately that something was terribly wrong. Her mouth was a grim slash across her face; her usually regulated hair was falling out of her bun; her glasses were slightly askew and her eyes were cast downwards.

Professor Slughorn looked up, and called joyfully, "Professor! Is there something you need?"

Professor McGonagall remained grim. "I'd like to speak to Remus Lupin, please."

"And how long will he be gone for? We are brewing a vital potion for the OWL curriculum."

"I expect for the whole lesson - both periods." McGonagall looked even more sorrowful as she said that. She looked at Remus, and with a wavering uncertainty in his heart, he followed her out, leaving a confused class behind him.

Each footstep seemed to add the the foreboding sense in his heart. Professor McGonagall was leading Remus deep into the castle. "Have I done something wrong, Professor?"

"No, Mr Lupin, I should think not. Let me explain in the privacy of my office. I'm afraid it isn't good news."

So - still with the mounting dread - Remus followed his head of house.

Professor McGonagall's office was small but strangely overwhelming. Of course Remus had been inside before - the Professor had told the Marauders off for many different pranks - but now, with the Professor looking so flustered, Remus felt like the twelve-year-old having his first detention.

The walls were beige, and the desk was mahogany. Bookshelves lined the walls, as well as a small Gryffindor flag hanging by the window. Very ordinary. Suddenly malevolent.

They sat.

"Have a biscuit, Lupin."

Remus obeyed.

"I'm afraid the news is grave. There was another attack this morning in Suffolk. I'm so sorry, Remus. Your mother was killed."

Remus felt numb. The world around him blurred and distorted. His hand gripped the armrest so tight he thought it would snap off. His head felt like it had been plunged in a bucket of ice cold water, then promptly burnt to crisp. It was as if a falling gaping hole had opened in his chest; as if fire lined his throat, for suddenly it felt raw and dry. Tears spilled from his cheeks, over the pale skin and the freckles and the scar that lay across his nose.

His mother. Hope Lupin. The kindest woman.

 _She smiled. Even after her son had turned into a bloodthirsty monster and ripped himself apart, she smiled at him. A smile that told of sweet music and the scent of beautiful flowers. "Don't worry, Remus. Next time will be easier. It's always hardest at first."_

She hadn't cared. Not at all. She didn't care that her four-your-old son could easily destroy her. She worried, but never judged.

" _Remus, don't listen to them. They just don't understand. We'll move house again, and those boys won't be there. We'll move house and nobody in the new village will know, alright?"_

" _Yes, mum."_

" _Don't look so glum! We can move to the seaside and I promise to buy you ice cream."_

And she had been so proud, so stubborn. She insisted that her son got only the best.

" _What do you mean, can't go to school? Remus will go to school, and if not I'll teach him magic myself. Yes, I_ know _I'm a muggle."_

" _Hope…" his father had said._

" _Remus shall go to Hogwarts. In fact, I will write to the headmaster right now!"_

 _And she had. The young muggle woman had written to Albus Dumbledore to demand that her son - a werewolf - be put on the list immediately._

Everything she did had been for her family and friends. She had gone to every end to make sure everyone was happy.

" _Sorry Ms., but you've gone over the legal limit. You'll have to come to the station with me." the officer had said, eyeing Sirius who had collapsed from laughter in the back seat of the car._

" _I'm awfully sorry. We're late to an evening in London. I won't do it again, officer."_

 _And then, when around the corner, Hope Lupin had gone back to the previous, awesome, breakneck speed that she'd been driving at before._

She could get away with anything, and her mind was sharp and witty. She would have been a Ravenclaw had she attended Hogwarts.

" _How are the lessons?" she had asked after first year. "Tell me everything."_

 _Remus had described every subject with precise detail, along with his marks. "... but I only got 50% correct in astronomy," he finished._

" _We'll have to sort that out, won't we? Bring me your textbook and we'll have a look. Astronomy is one thing I can do without magic."_

 _And she had. By second year, Remus had caught up with the top pupils like Lily Evans, and with his mother's advice had quickly become the same advice he gave to Peter Pettigrew._

But now she was gone, and tugging these memories from the back of his mind had widened the gaping hole in his chest. His eyes stung, drying now, as there were no more tears to shed. He knew he was shaking, and that he should be embarrassed for crying in front of his teacher, but he wasn't. Professor McGonagall had a calming atmosphere around her. After all, she'd seen him after transformations when he was either head-to-toe in blood or bruised up beyond recognition. She had seen him at best and worst, and now she saw him for who he was: not a dangerous creature or a mischievous prankster, but a boy who loved his mother. A boy who didn't know what to do now that she was gone.

* * *

Sirius, James and Peter walked to the dormitories after a hurried lunch. They had expected Remus to be at their usual place at the table, but he was absent. Their group seemed empty without the werewolf with his dry sarcasm and brilliant plans for pranks and tricks.

The Gryffindor common room was empty. The fire hissed in the grate, but that was the only sound.

They reached the dormitory and stepped in. Remus sat on his bed, head in hands, shaking ever so slightly. The sight wasn't common. The last time they saw Remus cry was back in second year when they'd fell out over the discovery of his secret.

He looked up, and they saw tear tracks below his eyes, and when he spoke his voice was choking and ragged, "Go away."

Sirius stepped forwards, "No, Remus. Whatever it is … we'll help you. Is it about your transformations? Is there a new law against werewolves? Do you have a crush? Did McGonagall turn into a cat and eat your toes? Did you get a bad score in Defence Against the Dark Arts?"

Remus shook his head, "No, just go away, _please._ You can't help."

James spoke up, "Remus, you're our friend. We're _meant_ to help you. And don't you dare say you don't deserve it, Remus Lupin, because you're not a monster. You're one of us. A Marauder. We don't care if you have a furry little problem or you like some ugly hag of a girl."

"And I doubt you could ever get a bad grade in Defence." Peter added.

Remus shook his head, "There isn't a girl, and I did get a good grade. It's not even about my condition."

"What is it, then? Come on, mate. You can tell us." Sirius said.

"There was another attack," Remus hesitated, reluctant to tell them. Sirius wouldn't understand - he hated his mother. Maybe the others would, though. "Mum's dead."

And the other three Marauders joined him, James hugging him, and Sirius putting a comforting hand on his shoulder, and Peter gathering the last of the chocolate frogs.

As he sunk into their embrace, he saw his mother standing before him with a smile on her face, her greying hair flying out of its bun as always, and she was wearing her apron she wore when cooking.

" _I promise you this, Remus,"_ she'd said before Remus came to Hogwarts _, "Some people will hate you for who you are, but some won't. You'll find some people who love you no matter what happens every month. And any true friend will be one of those people. Any true friend will accept you, and they won't care."_

Hope Lupin had been patient and smart and caring and kind and she'd always keep a promise. She didn't deserve to die, but even the angels of the Earth will be gone one day.

Even the sweetest of angels fall.


	2. Dolls (Frank and Alice Longbottom)

**Hey! I'm back with another chapter. Thank you, all you wonderful reviewers - it's you guys and gals who have motivated me to continue. Shout out to** _ **magical medicine,**_ **who has helped me sort out who the next 'angel' is.**

 **This one's a bit dark and bitter, and I don't really know how it went, so please tell me what you think!**

The picture was a thing of beauty for Neville. He had never seen pictures of them before. Not ones like this, anyway - his grandma had only briefly showed him photos of Frank as a child, and the Alice at their wedding. It had all seemed fake. Either they were hopelessly silly photos of Neville's father spilling porridge down his shirt, or his mother was dressed up in a gown that didn't suit her at all. They were wearing either annoyed smiles or ridiculously large ones. None of it seemed right. Not right at all. And they didn't look the same now. He loved them, but their cheeks were sunken and their eyes held a vacant look, as if there was nothing inside at all.

This photograph, however was perfect. Frank was looking around, smirking at the person holding the camera, and Alice was laughing at something a woman beside her had said. They looked so real, so comfortable and happy that Neville longed to reach into the picture and join them in their gentle, cosy joy that lit up the room. He wished to leap into his mother's arms and to shake his father's hand. To hear them tell him that they loved him and that they were proud. That's all he wanted. He wanted to see them, in real life, and to revel in their peace.

But that wasn't possible. Because they weren't the same. Not at all. Now, it was as if they were totally hollow, their eyes glazed and staring. Their movement was slow and awkward, their speech muddled and almost unintelligible. Frank was no longer handsome and funny and caring and loyal. Alice was no longer kind and understanding and clever. They were simply shells. Empty shells that sat and mumbled and gave Neville an endless supply of sweet wrappers.

He almost wished they weren't there at all.

Better dead than unable to function with any semblance of their former selves.

Better gone than doing nothing but making their son weep.

And he did weep. He wept in grief. Ultimate, unrivalled grief that filled him with pain and sorrow and all the horrible thoughts that he didn't want to think. The type of grief that mothers have when their own child dies. Because they might as well be dead. Their thoughts were dead and their defining characteristics were blown away with the spiteful wind. Neville didn't want to grieve for the living. But he did.

He wept in pity. Pity not for his poor parents but for those who did that to them. Those who would have so much hatred in their hearts that they could torture someone until they were just .. gone. Alive, but not quite _there._ He felt pity for Bellatrix Lestrange and her accomplices, who could not even feel that hopeless pain that comes with pity. Neville didn't want to feel anything for them. But he did.

He wept in anger. Because of that fateful curse, he was effectively left motherless and fatherless. Because they were not there for him. And he was forgetful because there was no-one truly patient enough to remind him. He was disadvantaged in class because the wand he wielded wasn't his. It was his father's, and if said father had been able to use it, Neville wouldn't have to. Neville didn't want to feel angry, because he knew his parents died for a noble cause. But he did.

Neville wept in despair. How could he gain advice without someone who truly cared enough to give it to him? How could he brush up his magic with nobody to practice with? How could he do all the things a father was meant to explain … what would happen when he couldn't tie a bow tie, or when he needed to start shaving? There was no helpful advisor, no caring and patient teacher, no mother or father to nurture him. His grandmother was strict and strong and couldn't do that. She couldn't - not on her own. Neville didn't want to despair over simple problems like that. But he did.

Neville wept with hate. Not for the evil group who had tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom. Not for his parents, or his grandmother, or for those who had what he didn't. He hated himself in the times he saw his thoughtless parents. He hated himself when Bellatrix Lestrange escaped from Azkaban. Because he treated them like the deceased. Like they were dead already. Because he felt pity for the bad and anger for the good. Because he was too weak to respect his parents. Because he couldn't be independant; couldn't even try to do things without a parent or a friend or his grandmother. And because he would rather they were dead. He hated his own thoughts. He had a wish he couldn't control. He wished they didn't complicate matters in his life without even being there to sort it out. He wished they wouldn't be like they were, so useless. Like dolls that Voldemort's followers played with before discarding. He wished that Bellatrix Lestrange had finished the job and ripped the heads right off the dolls. He wished that his parents were completely gone, in body as well as mind, rather than lingering as a painful reminder of Neville's suffering. He didn't want to wish all these things and he didn't want to hate himself for not wanting to wish these things. But he did.

And the picture … it showed a time before the couple caused that pain. Showed that they had done something worthwhile before this simple uselessness. Showed the two of them in the centre of a top secret organisation, doing something truly noble. Showed that they were strong. Showed that they had done something other than give birth to a thick son and then shown him how hopelessly stuck he was. And Neville realised, finally staring into two pairs of bright eyes - not dull or glazed or clouded, but bright and shining - that his parents hadn't deserved to fall.

They had fallen into a pit of darkness, yet their descent to death had been cushioned. But they didn't deserve that. No-one deserved that, especially these smiling, happy people were surrounded by people whose falls to death had not been obstructed. Lucky people who had this lovable pair who everyone liked, this talented couple, these parents … they were not like the hundreds of beautiful angels who _had_ reached the end. Frank and Alice Longbottom instead took the road of pain and madness and suffering. They would prefer to be dead. Even better, alive and well enough to see their son grow and make them proud.

And Neville finally looked up from the photo. He _would_ make them proud. Maybe they weren't here to see him do it, but when they finally stumbled down that pit - right to the end this time - he'd join them. And they'd smile like they had in the photo, with warmth and glittering joy, and Neville would leap into his mother's arms and shake his father's hand, and all would be well.

He'd do it. He really would. These shining angels deserved all his strength, all his love and his effort. He'd make them proud, and their memory would linger in his heart forever.

Even the strongest of angels fall.

* * *

 **Wow. That came out totally different from everything I planned … oops! But thanks for reading - I really appreciate it. Tell me what you think!**


	3. A note

I am aware that no-one reads this, so I've moved the other chapters elsewhere, because none of them had any reviews. Thank you so much for supporting the first couple of chapters, and if you're looking for more angst, check out my other writing (on my profile), especially Flaws of Perfection.

Sorry,

Ash.


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